This idea is probably everywhere, but I needed to write it.
Chapter Three: Clint's Waffles
The next morning, Natasha wakes up in her apartment to the sound of muffled cursing from somewhere else. She lifts off her bedsheets and is about to go check out the scene, but then sees the big white pain that is her cast. Natasha rolls her eyes as she gets her crutches because nothing is better for the stealthy approach than a big pair of clunky crutches. She unstraps the gun strapped to her mattress as she tries her best to sneak around.
What better than to attack an assassin who can't properly fight back? This cast leaves her more vulnerable than usual, but that won't stop her from kicking a culprit with her other foot, no matter what Clint says.
Once Natasha approaches the kitchen via crutches, she hears something hit the floor. Increasing her speed the best she can, Natasha enters the kitchen. All in the span of one second, she makes her stance and holds up her gun. Her crutches drop to the ground.
Natasha looks at the one at the other end and lowers her gun. It's Clint holding a bowl of batter. She rolls her eyes and puts her gun on the counter. Her kitchen is a bit of a mess but she figures that she can yell at him about it later.
"You know, I was going to bring you breakfast in bed," Clint tells her. "I apologize if I woke up but I kind of burned my hand and dropped a few things."
"What are you doing here?" Natasha asks.
"Being a good partner. If I broke my leg, wouldn't you have broken into my apartment and made me a fresh batch of homemade waffles?"
"Your apartment is a pig sty and smells of old pizza and coffee," she says, bending down to pick up her crutches. "I wouldn't be found anywhere near your place."
Clint couldn't deny it. For a man with perfect aim, he could never hit a trash can.
Natasha takes a few steps closer to Clint and sees a stack of already-finished waffles that look edible. She breaks off a corner piece and tastes it. Clint looks at Natasha and watches as she takes another corner off. She expected them to taste bad since Clint was the chef, but to her surprise, they tasted good.
"Not bad," Natasha remarks.
"See," Clint says, "you need me."
"I need your waffles, not you."
Natasha grabs another plate and takes two waffles. She grabs a bottle of syrup and drizzles a squiggly line across the waffles. Clint smiles to himself knowing that she wants him around, even if she'll never admit it.
I was hearing noises and creepy laughter in my apartment last night. I kind of hoped it was Clint making waffles.
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